I hate when people tell me I remind them of that guy on Seinfeld. It is rude and insensitive. It’s a backhanded way of pointing out that I’m fat, and I’d really appreciate it if people didn’t compare me to Newman. It stirs up a well of feelings, from anger to frustration to sadness. It hurts. Sometimes I think these continuing insults are reason enough to subject myself to bariatric surgery.

So, for the record, here is a list of some of the differences between me and Newman:

• I’m a real person, with feelings. Newman is a fictional character played by an actor named Wayne Knight. Any physical resemblance between me and Wayne is purely coincidental.
• Newman is mean, manipulative, crude and evil. I’m a pleasant guy and I generally try to maintain a positive attitude. Newman doesn’t.
• People who watch Seinfeld, including me, usually hate Newman. People usually like me.
• I’ve got an amazing, beautiful wife and two incredible children. Newman lives alone with his misery.
• I’m not a mailman (frankly, if I was I probably wouldn’t be so overweight).

I don’t mean to be so tongue-in-cheek, because this really does piss me off. So don’t do it anymore.

I’ve been the fat guy since third grade. Prior to that, I was skinny-as-a-rail slim, like my three-year-old son Ari is today. With my shirt off you could see ribs and a flat stomach. But between 1^st and 3^rd grade, something changed. I blew up like a balloon, as the saying goes. I remember sad, strange things from this time. My mother replacing my winter coat several times in one year, as I outgrew the smaller sizes. Struggling to fit in to my Star Trek Halloween costume. Being embarrassed to take my shirt off at the beach. Feeling different than everyone else.

After I got fat, school life changed for the worse. I was always picked last for team sports, since I couldn’t run fast. Kids teased me relentlessly, calling me ‘the bubble’ or comparing me to Weebles, a popular toy with egg shaped characters. It was hard to find a seat on the school bus, because the other kids insisted I’d squish them. After a while it became impossible to make friends. It didn’t help that my parents moved us every few years. Not only was I always the new kid, I was the new fat kid. So I ate more.

I don’t know exactly what triggered my initial weight gain. But I know that as I got older, eating became my way of dealing with stress and hardship. I gained weight steadily from my teenage years into young adulthood. By the time I graduated from college, I was trapped in a vicious circle. I eat because I feel bad about myself, but then I feel even worse about myself. I eat when I’m stressed and worried. I eat when things are not going well. I eat when I don’t know what else to do. I try to exercise, but my weight makes it too difficult and painful.

I’ve tried diet after diet – Weight Watchers, HMR, Atkins, South Beach. I’ve worked with nutritionists. When I was 12, my parents sent me to Weight Watchers summer camp. The idea was I’d get into shape before my Bar Mitzvah the next year. I spent a month with other heavy kids, running and carrying on, and eating the prescribed diet (which at the time included a horrible – and offensive – liver stew). I also spent time sneaking sweets and other forbidden goodies from a convenience store near the college campus where the camp was based. At the twice weekly weigh-in, I was chastised by the camp nurse because of my inability to lose weight. I came home a bit thinner, but quickly gained it all back, plus more.

Obesity has a huge downside. I reached my current and peak weight about three years ago, when my wife and son almost died in childbirth. 321 pounds means I can’t easily hike or ski with my kids. It means I can’t keep up with my kids while they are having the time of their lives at DisneyWorld. It means I can’t easily bike with them during summer trips to our beloved Nantucket. It means I have a much harder time doing the home improvement projects I love so much. It means I have to shop for clothes at a big and tall shop. It means I have to drive a bigger car. It means I can’t sit comfortably on planes or at the movies, or even in my synagogue. It means I’ve suffered discrimination at work. It means I’m constantly aching. It means medical comorbidities, like sleep apnea, asthma and fatty liver, not to mention the future complications that await me. It is a burden that has had me depressed for most of my adult life.

I’ve been in therapy for years, trying to figure out why I eat and how to control it. I’ve learned a lot about myself and why I eat. I’ve come to terms with some of the more pervasive issues from my childhood – a difficult and controlling father, low self esteem, undiagnosed attention deficit disorder. At age 40, what I’ve realized is that without a drastic step, I’m not going to win this battle.

I’m 40 years old and I weigh 321 pounds. I’ve been struggling with my weight since I was a young child. I’ve tried all kinds of diets and weight loss regimes. I’ve lived on liquid protein shakes for months at a time. I’ve taken vitamin and mineral supplements, attended support groups and tried to sweat the fat out. Nothing has ever worked for me. I’ve steadily gained about 5-10 pounds a year since my early 20s.

With two young kids and a beautiful, brilliant wife, I’ve decided the time has come for drastic action. I’m setting myself on a course toward surgical intervention. Basically, I’m going to have my gut replumbed. I won’t be able to ingest the quantities I’ve consumed in the past, and my body won’t absorb all of the calories from the food I do ingest. It’s a dangerous and scary decision, but one I feel is truly necessary.

Why the blog? Well, I’m a marketing guy and writer by trade. I was laid off from a big financial services company in the spring of 2009. I needed a project separate from my job search to keep my mind stimulated. I also need to write to process in my own mind what I’m going through. It’s a huge step for me to share such intimate details of my life, so give me a break when you’re reading it. You can think of me as the fat guy, and maybe even take some pity on me, but don’t forget that everybody’s got their own baggage. I’m doing this to understand mine.